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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830500">I'll Bet You'd Go To A Hanging</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pots_the_giraffe/pseuds/pots_the_giraffe'>pots_the_giraffe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bandom, Fall Out Boy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe- Mafia, Bartender! Pete, Excessive Use of 50s Slang, Guns, M/M, Mob Boss! Patrick, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:02:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,618</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pots_the_giraffe/pseuds/pots_the_giraffe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The police force have been cracking down on the Mafia, sending more than just suspicious glances Patrick’s way and his hush money is running low. There’s only so long until he’s locked up but he wants to seal the deal on this casino first. Hopefully he’ll be able to win the law force of Chicago over again before he's put away.</p><p>Maybe the bar Pete worked at had a larger than average amount of patrons in organized crime compared to others but it was the only place that would hire him so he turned a blind eye to any suspicious activity. It was a paying job and he saw no reason to question the patrons and their more than illicit activities.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I'll Bet You'd Go To A Hanging</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have spent so long researching for this fic so I hope it's worth it! I'm going to upload whenever I will be able to. I'm unsure how accurate this is as I've never been to Chicago, am not part of the Mafia, and was born 50 years too late to have lived in the 50s.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick couldn’t believe how long he’d been sitting in this car, how long he was going to have to sit there. He’d forgotten how long the drive had been. The heat that had settled into the car was beginning to bug him. Why were they going so slow?</p><p>Patrick had left Chicago about a year ago to see what was happening in Vegas. He’d even considered buying a casino there, but there was already too much competition and high stakes. Plus he wanted to get back home. There was only so much time he could spend glaring at skeevy casino owners and winning poker games. Besides, he had business that needed to be handled in Chicago. </p><p>When he had left for Vegas with two of his most trusted associates he had been hoping to return with important information in regards to what was happening with some of the less trusted mob bosses. Those who got to Vegas quick enough were smart, the casinos were bringing in money big time. The spike in illegal activities in Vegas was a happy surprise, more people were getting caught with hookers or recreational drugs provided by the Mob. Patrick had been more than happy to have taken the extra cash off their hands, they could use it much more in Chicago than they did. They’d make it all back in no time anyways.</p><p>Patrick’s associates had taken turns driving him on the way there and back, too scared to say anything. Though whether it had to do with the gun on his hip and the fact that Patrick wouldn’t hesitate to shoot or simply because they were candy-asses was to be determined.</p><p>They were driving a car Patrick had stolen because he hadn’t wanted to risk his own car getting recognized by someone with ill-intent. It was practically a free car, the owner hadn’t even bothered to lock it, so it’s not his fault he stole it. The car, however, was nice. It was a black 1937 Cadillac that was kept in almost mint condition and had probably only been driven a number of times. Whoever it belonged to would miss it dearly, so of course it had been the perfect car to take. The cops would probably be alerted immediately, would get paid extra because of how much the car means to the person. They’d taken the license plate off and replaced it with one from a different car that had been in the parking lot. They would probably fly right under the police’s radar. He’d maybe even get a chance to lie to the police, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than that.
Patrick was tempted to leave a message at the next police station. Maybe tell them that the car was headed north, see how long it’d take them before they realized the license plate had been switched. He couldn’t risk it though, 24 hours from then the car would be found in a lake half an hour from Chicago, the license plate back intact. If there was one thing to be said about Patrick, it was that he liked to poke fun at the police. He could just make the car disappear, paint it another color, and sell it for more than it’s worth but that was too much effort. He didn’t know anyone who needed a car anyway.</p><p>They were probably going too fast, the dirt and dead bushes flying past, and if they sped up they’d probably draw unwanted attention. That's exactly why Patrick leaned forward, his chin next to the driver’s shoulder and whispered, “Speed up.” The driver flinched but did as asked.</p><p>It wasn’t fast enough, the occasional car still passed them so he whispered into the driver’s ear, “Faster.” The driver looked back at him but complied.</p><p>Patrick sat back, satisfied as the saguaros, dried up bushes, and cacti blurred together. They were the one’s passing cars now, other driver’s faces flashing mixtures of anger and annoyance but they didn’t speed up. </p><p>He leaned forward and spun the volume dial on the radio, “-gust 2nd, 1951, in Las Vegas, Nevada a black 1937 Cadillac was reported stolen at 2 30 am.” A female voice reported over the radio, her voice broken up by static. They were side by side another car.</p><p>The other car’s driver must've heard the announcement too, if the shock on her face meant anything. “The license plate number is-” Patrick smirked at the relieved look on the woman's face as the car passed her and she realized it wasn’t the same car. “If you see this car, report the location to the nearest police station and provide a description of the car’s passengers. We will be making this announcement every 20 minutes. Now back to your regularly scheduled program.” The voice continued on cheerfully.</p><p>Patrick leaned forward to flip through the stations, letting out huffs and sighs every couple of seconds before settling on a station playing Hank Williams.</p><p>  </p><p>They’d been driving for a good fourteen hours before a cop pulled them over. The sun had long since set and they were now somewhere between Colorado and Nebraska. They’d heard the sirens and pulled over because even if Patrick was always looking for trouble, he wasn’t looking to get arrested.</p><p>The driver had already rolled down her window, smiling charmingly at the cop as he stepped up to the car door.</p><p>“Well now aren’t you a doll.” The cop was trying to be charming, and Patrick’s driver obviously didn’t care. She was a good actor though, he had to admit. Either that or the cop had a thick skull.</p><p>She giggled as she waved a hand in front of her face, “Well you’re quite a dreamboat yourself, mister! Now, is there anything we could do for you?” She asked, batting her eyelashes. Patrick should probably learn her name, since she was saving his ass from getting locked in the cooler.</p><p>“I was just wonderin’ if you were aware a car just like this one’s been stolen.” The cop finally dragged his eyes away from Patrick’s driver, finally realizing there were other people in the car, the cop turned his attention back to the driver, “It seems that I was mistaken, the license plates don’t match. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, kitten.”</p><p>“Oh, it’s no worry,” she giggled, “I hope you don’t mind if we get on our way.” She sent the cop a charming smile and flipped her hair over her shoulder. Patrick was proud of himself, he really did pick out the good one’s.</p><p>The cop left with a final wink and she rolled the car window up. Once the cop car began to drive away, they all relaxed into their seats, letting out a collective sigh.</p><p>This was why Patrick loved what he did, the adrenaline rush was one of a kind. He let out a low chuckle and the others followed. The feeling of getting away with it, right under the cop’s nose poured over all of them. It took a minute before the laughter died down.</p><p>“So,” Patrick began as he leaned forward again. He felt the driver tense, “What’s your name?”</p><p>  </p><p>They arrived in Chicago successfully, Patrick got dropped off in front of his apartment so his associates could get rid of the car. He hadn’t slept on the drive, instead he’d been planning what he was going to do once he got back. He hadn’t been home in ages, but it was still the same.</p><p>The bakery across from his apartment was still run by old Mrs. Asher, the dog that slept on the steps still rubbed against his legs when he walked past, a select few people still flinched when he passed them on the street. It was everything he had missed when he was away. </p><p>His apartment was larger than average, it was still the same as when he had purchased it seven years ago when he was a mere 19 year old. He could’ve moved out into a bigger apartment but he loved the little place so much. </p><p>He stepped through the door and took a deep breath. His house didn’t smell like him since he’d been gone so long, but he still recognized the smell of his detergent mixed with the underlying hints of bleach and blood. He looked around the apartment, making sure no one had invaded his home while he was away.</p><p>The dark brown carpet didn’t have any disturbances in the grain, the two red couches that faced each other looked untouched, the coffee table in between still had the mug he’d left there in the corner. His small TV sat on a shelf by the fireplace. The coats he’d left behind were still hung on the coat rack. His many books were untouched on the shelves running along one of the walls. The few pictures he had of local buildings still hung at an odd angle from his never taking the time to level them. It was home in every sense of the word. It was the only place he’d ever considered home since his parent’s divorce. </p><p>He hung his blazer on the hook by the front door, he tossed his keys into the bowl, he slipped his shoes off in front of his chair, before making his way into his bedroom. He hoped he had food still in the pantry (though even before he left, most of it had been expired), he didn’t want to go out to eat quite so soon.</p><p>He was pleased to find that none of his friends had stopped in while he was away. His dark blue bedding was unkempt just the way he left it, no new dents had been added to the pale blue walls, his black dresser drawers pulled out just enough to know no one had disturbed the way he had left them. He needed to check the washing machine in the morning, many things could be hidden in there.</p><p>He set his gun down on his nightstand, he could never be too close to his gun. As he removed his trousers and button up he noticed the note tucked into the ankle of one of the pairs of shoes he’d left behind. He’d look into that later, his current concern was whether he had time to get a muffin the next morning. He put on his pajama pants, making sure he didn’t feel anything in the pockets besides the small vial sewn in. He collapsed into bed not much after, drained from the car ride.</p><p> </p><p>He woke up the next morning to a loud banging on his front door. He groaned as he sat up, eyeing the clock on the wall. The clock was taunting him, it couldn’t be only 6 in the morning, everyone knew better than to wake him up this early. He sluggishly got out of bed, grabbed his gun as he made his way towards the door. </p><p>The paint on the door was chipped in places, the paint a few shades off in others from having to fix holes, the door dented along the bottom. He really needed to just buy a new door.</p><p>“Stump, I saw that you arrived last night!” Patrick winced as he recognized the voice, but he set his gun down on the kitchen table and cracked open the door. Just barely sticking his head out he saw that standing there was a tall man. Too tall and too loud.</p><p>“Is there a reason you came knockin’, Saporta?” Patrick grumbled as he moved out of the way to let him in.</p><p>“Oh, you’re going to make me bust a gut, Stump! I just wanted to see how my favorite Mob Boss is doing!” Saporta was talking ten times louder than any person should at this hour, and Patrick made sure to tell him so.</p><p>“I am far from your favorite, though Beckett isn’t technically a mob boss.” Patrick sighed as Saporta picked up his gun, running his fingers over it. “Put that down before you blow someone’s head off.” Patrick dropped down into his seat, closing his eyes and sighing when he heard Saporta set the gun down onto the dark wood table.</p><p>“Fine, fine. How was Vegas? I heard the Mob’s doin’ good down there.” Saporta was talking as if he weren’t even trying to hide the fact that they were connected to the nations most wanted organized crime group.</p><p>“Beckett’s gotta stop snitchin’ on us. You’re not supposed to know, and I’m not telling you.” Patrick opened his eyes to grab his gun and pointed it at Saporta, he brought his other hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. He needed to have a serious chat with Beckett about priorities. “Now get out before I shoot.”</p><p>Saporta seemed to realize he wasn’t joking as he hurriedly walked across the apartment. He opened the door and was halfway out before he called out, “I’ll see you at the bar this evening.” The door slammed behind him.</p><p>Patrick set his gun back down before resting his head in his hands and groaning loudly. He forgot he’d promised to go play yet another game of poker that night. He was almost glad Saporta had woken him up, he had a lot to do today. First and foremost was visiting Mrs. Asher and then making sure no one had forgotten their promises to him while he’d been away. </p><p>He made his way into his room to get changed, making sure his ring was still snug on his pinky finger. Saporta had stolen it once before and he couldn’t handle that embarrassment again.</p><p>-*- </p><p>The light of the setting sun filtered in through the windows and the constantly swinging door. The air was heavy with the smell of beer, sweat, and tension. Most tables were full, white men laughing too loudly, their dates nodding along silently. The poker games were heating up as people’s confidence continued rising. Hushed conversations were humming beneath the raucous, important topics being discussed in the middle of a bar. The music playing from the jukebox filling in any gaps in the atmosphere. Drinks were getting knocked over onto the floor, people just laughing it off and waving over another drink. </p><p>Pete sighed as one of the many too-drunk men sitting at the bar knocked over yet another glass. Pete was usually the one left to clean up at the end of each night because all of the other bartenders were either pretty, young white girls or charming, smooth white men so it wouldn’t have made sense for them to work later. The late hours were better than not working at all, at least he was getting paid hourly and his coworkers didn’t seem to be bothered by him. The same couldn’t be said for a lot of the guests, but he’s dealt with worse.</p><p>He rolled the sleeves of his white button up again as he grabbed the wash cloth that he’d tossed over his shoulder. As he began wiping off the counter, he motioned for one of the bartenders to get the man another drink. He was going to have to get the cleaner so the counter doesn’t get stained.</p><p>He threw the cloth back over his shoulder once he was done. He usually tried to stay in the back of the bar, washing dishes, but tonight they’d needed another barman. 
</p><p>“Get us another round!” Someone yelled from a poker table in the corner of the bar. Pete looked over at the other ‘tender, a young girl who was busy serving drinks to the men at the bar.</p><p>The girl looked over at him and grimaced, “They’re fixin’ to get loaded, and it ain’t my problem.” Pete sighed as she turned back to the old man who was obviously lookin’ to flirt with her.</p><p>Pete began filling the glasses from the tap. There looked to be six people seated so he’d only have to make one trip. He set the glasses on a tray and began his journey through the crowd of people. He was holding the tray awkwardly, because he’d tried to avoid doing this since he got hired. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he felt like he was going to knock something over.</p><p>Pete had only been working at the bar for a few weeks, but he could already tell why he got hired. The bar’s frequenters appeared to be heavily involved in illegal activities, if the way they dressed and what they spoke about was anything to go by. Pete didn’t want to lose this job, he was getting paid .60 cents an hour, better than any other offers, so he made sure to look the other way if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to.</p><p>He made it to the table and no one paid him much attention, too caught up in their game. He set the glasses down carefully, acting as if he didn’t notice the guns tucked into the pants of the players.</p><p>“You’re bashin’ my ears, so could ya cut the gas for a minute?” One of the guys asked, his cards held confidently in front of him. The last glass Pete had to set down belonged to the man the question was directed at. He hesitated before he stepped closer. </p><p>“You’re a fink, so maybe you should take a good long look in a mirror!” The guy declared loudly as he stood up and slammed his hands against the table as Pete was setting down the last glass.</p><p>All he could do was watch as the glass tipped onto its side and began pouring across the table and onto the floor.</p><p>The whole table turned to look at Pete. He hadn’t spilt any on the man, just onto the floor, but the man didn’t seem to care.</p><p>“Are ya achin’ for a breakin’?” The guy asked harshly, his eyes burning through Pete.</p><p>Pete was stuttering apologies as he grabbed his towel to wipe the floor, “No, no. It was an accident, you just shocked me for a minute there. I’ll bring you another glass, on the house. I’m real sorry to have caused a disruption, honest.” He’d have to make sure when he cleaned the floor that it didn’t stain.</p><p>The guy looked apprehensive for a second before he leered at Pete. “How ‘bout the next round on the house? Then we won’t have any problems right, niggar?” Pete stopped himself from flinching as he considered the offer. He wouldn’t be able to afford an entire round of drinks, but if he got fired from this job, he was almost certain he wouldn’t be able to get another one.</p><p>Pete sighed as he stood back up, forcing a polite smile on his face, “Of course, I’ll be right back with your drink. Just holler when you’re ready for the next round.” He waited until the man nodded, then turned to walk back to the bar, the empty glass held unsteadily on his tray.</p><p>He really should’ve expected it when he felt a leg stick out in front of him. He gasped and tried reaching for something to grab onto before he hit the nasty floor. The glass went flying a few feet as he moved his hands in front of him, hoping to catch his weight. His breath was forced out of his lungs as he landed heavily on his stomach. He heard the people at the tables around him laughing as he quickly stood back up. His palms were raw, his knees sore, and his ego bruised. As small waves of pain and embarrassment wracked through his body, he looked around for his tray and the now broken glass.</p><p>As he began to walk towards where his tray landed, his shoulders hunched and head down as the people continued laughing, he heard the man declare loud enough for everyone to hear, “Now ain’t that a bite, maybe you should watch where you’re goin next time?” The laughter that followed only made the shame worsen.</p><p>It wasn’t like this was the first time something like this had happened, it was far from it and certainly not the worst that’s ever been done to him, but it didn’t make it any less embarrassing. The glass was another thing he’d have to pay for, something he definitely couldn’t afford on top of the drinks. </p><p>The tray had landed in front of a brown haired man with a particularly large nose and Pete was surprised to see he wasn’t laughing. He picked his tray up from off the floor, expecting the man to kick it out of his hand and rushed out of the way. He made a note to grab the broom after bringing the man his drink. </p><p>When he reached the bar, the girl, Hayley he believed her name to be, smiled sadly at him before filling another glass. He was more than surprised when Hayley handed him the glass, but took it, not looking to come off as rude. He was more than a little frosted at the man, but he wasn’t allowed to show it, instead smiling at Hayley as he began to turn away. He was sure his smile came off as more of a grimace but it’s the thought that counts. </p><p> </p><p>Later that evening, once everyone had cleared out and the bar was closed, him and a boy he was certain was underage worked on scrubbing the floor clean. He didn’t know why the boy was helping clean, it wasn’t something that had ever happened before but he wasn’t going to ask. The boy hadn’t even said anything, he had come in from the back of the bar and just began helping Pete. The jukebox was still playing softly, Ella Fitzgerald humming throughout the bar.</p><p>Pete knew his boss was going to have a talk with him about the situation from earlier and he wasn’t looking forward to it. It had been the first time at the bar that someone had acted physically aggressive towards him, even if it was something as simple as tripping him. This was usually the time when he got fired, when his bosses realized that Pete would be a disturbance to the space. </p><p>After an hour of cleaning, the boy left without a word. Pete didn’t have much left to do, he just had to stack the glasses and wash the towels. Every other night they had a band that would come in and play some music for people to dance to so he had to make sure the backstage area was acceptable. </p><p>He was walking towards the jukebox to turn it off but stopped when he saw his boss come in through the back door.</p><p>“I heard what happened today, Wentz.” Mr. Iero said with a sigh, “You’ve gotta be more careful, we can’t have this happening again.” He took off his blazer and tossed it over the backs of one of the chairs, “You won’t have to pay for the drinks, but next time have someone else serve them.”</p><p>Mr. Iero was a short man, the same height as Pete, with a pale complexion and dark hair. He often wore grey suits with a matching fedora and more than once Pete had seen a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. Mr. Iero, when he wasn’t out, usually played a game of poker with some of the particularly frightening patrons. Pete was more than aware that Iero was part of the mob, it was obvious from what he wore to the way he talked, it was built into his very being. It certainly explained why most of the clientele talked of such illegal activities in public for such a lack of fear Pete would always be jealous of.</p><p>“I know, I know. I’m so sorry to have caused a disruption, I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.” Pete’s eyes quickly flashed to the gun at Iero’s hip before meeting his eyes again. He knew Iero wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him if he wished to.</p><p>“I’ve heard enough sorrows for one day.” Iero said as he got himself a glass, “Tomorrow we’ll be having an important guest who enjoys quality music so make sure the instruments are well kept. You should be able to manage the bar tomorrow, but the plans may change at the last moment.” </p><p>Pete watched as Iero drained the last of his beer. Pete felt the pressure ease off his chest, and he smiled at his boss. He may be making less than minimum wage but he won’t have to pay for the drinks and he’ll get to stay behind the bar the next day. He gets harassed less behind the bar for whatever reason so hopefully it’ll give people a chance to cool it.</p><p>“Will I recognize the guest?” Pete asked as he swept his eyes across the room after turning off the jukebox, making sure nothing was left to be done.
</p><p>“Probably not, he’ll be wearing a pair of binoculars, and he ain’t no cube, that’s for sure.” Iero washed his glass as he spoke, the running water adding some background noise to the otherwise eerie silence, “He shouldn’t give you any trouble. It’s probably time for you to cut out. I’ll be in playin’ tomorrow if you need anything.” He dried his glass with one of the recently washed towels before stacking it with the rest.</p><p> </p><p>Pete’s apartment was small, one bedroom, one bathroom, and the kitchen and living room might as well be considered one room. It was the only place he could even hope to rent, though he was almost always short a few bucks. The wallpaper was a off white/ yellow color with flower print that’d been recently applied before he moved in. It was probably the nicest thing in the whole place. The cupboards were a greenish color that matched his bedding, the single couch was purple, and his bathroom was tiled in dark blue. Most of the wood in the house was a light wash, that didn’t blend with anything else in the house and made the dirt on it obvious. It was home though, at least until he got kicked out. </p><p>At all other places he had lived at he had been kicked out either a) because of the amount of complaints the landlord got from the other tenants who didn’t want to live in the same building as a black man or b) because he couldn’t always pay the rent in full.</p><p>He’d been living at this place for three months now and he was only barely making the monthly payments. His landlord was kind though, not minding that he sometimes had to pay the rent in parts. So far, his landlord hadn’t even mentioned his late hours, so hopefully no one had complained about him arriving at home at 4 am each night. </p><p>He unlocked the door of his apartment, kicking his work shoes off as he made his way through the rooms. His work days were usually from 6 pm to 2am plus the extra two hours of cleaning. He spends most of the time he isn’t at work helping some of the old people who live in the apartment. Every once in a while he manages to get some sleep, a rare fete that happens once or twice a week. The rest of the time he spends holed up in his apartment, scribbling away in the notebook he takes everywhere. </p><p>It was one of the nights where exhaustion was weighing down his body, his eyes drooping, his thoughts sluggish as he collapsed into his bed, the lights in the kitchen still on.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I can be found on <a href="http://axebodyspray.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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